


Sitting, Waiting, Watching, Wishing

by orphan_account



Series: Be It Win, Lose, or Draw, Everyone for Omaha [1]
Category: College hockey RPF, Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: College Hockey, Established Relationship, Gen, Hockey, I Tried, M/M, NCAA, NCHC, Prior Injury, Trying something new, UNO, University of Nebraska-Omaha, bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nebraska-Omaha vs. Bentley (October 12th, 2013)</p><p>Final score: 4-2, Nebraska-Omaha</p><p>Three stars: Jake Guentzel, Josh Archibald, Brock Montpetit</p><p>Senior forward Zahn Raubenheimer did not play, due to a chronic knee injury, aggravated earlier this year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sitting, Waiting, Watching, Wishing

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously these boys are their own autonomous selves. I own none of them and this is a work of fiction. Enjoy!
> 
> POV Brock Montpetit

                It hurt to watch him watch. Brock hated, _hated_ looking up from the circle and seeing Zahn sitting there in the stands in his suit, miserable. Nobody liked to watch their team play hockey without them, but Brock thought it might be worse to have to watch Zahn watch him.

                He knew that there was no momentum going into the Saturday night game, after the loss the night before; 6-4, Jesus frickin’ Christ. Knew that with Zahn out again with his fucked-up knee, they’d have to poke and prod and get the Bentley guys angry, especially Krause. Knew that he and Johnnie and Mikey and Simo and Wally were gonna have to muck something outta nothing for their team. Knew that he’d spend the entire game swinging his eyes up to section 125 and seeing the guy who was supposed to be by his side, not sitting far above him, a suit in a sea of jerseys.

                And of course Bentley scored first. Of course they did.

                “C’mon, boys!” Mikey called as he stepped into the bench, coming back from reassuring Kirk that he’d be okay, he’d get the next one. “Let’s go, we gotta-lotta minutes left up there this period, let’s go!”

                “Git it back!” Johnnie added from the opposite end of the bench.

                It was just battles then; battles for possession, battles because of non-calls, battles everywhere. Archibald and Seeler especially shot after the dark-jerseyed Bentley players like cannons, laying hits left and right. With just under three minutes left, Archie got whistled for holding, a call that he contested for a moment, but with no real fire. “S’that not a fair call?” Brock asked Johnnie as he skated to a stop in front of the boards.

                “Naw,” the Texan grinned, shaking his head. “Archie was on ‘im like ugly on your sister.”

                He shoved at Johnnie’s shoulder, “I don’t even _have_ a sister, you moron.”

                “Hey, now!” Simo called from farther down the bench, popping his head over the side to look at them. “Don’t call the idiot a moron. He can’t help if he’s from Texas.”

                The bench exploded into laughter; Johnnie’s Texan roots were a never-ending source of entertainment for them all, one that never lost its humor.

                He kept glancing up at the clock as it wound down the period, hearing Kirk shouting numbers at him from the crease and Massa shouting them from the bench. “Fifteen seconds!” he finally heard Kirk scream, slapping his stick against the ice as he counted down. “Thirteen!”

                “Megs, Megs, Megs!” he heard Mikey shout as he snapped it to Megna.

                Megna collected the pass and twisted to his left, trying to find a hole to shot at.

                “Seven! Seven!”

                “Wheels, Megs!” Lane shrieked from behind him as he chased down a dark jersey, just before said jersey tripped Jaycob, sending him to the ice, but not before he batted the puck into the slot.

                Brock didn’t even think, he just grabbed the puck and snapped it at the net. Seconds later, the goal horn and the one to end the period sounded in tandem. Beside him, Davis yelled so hard that his voice cracked, inarticulate and wordless. Mikey, Lane, Davis, and Megs all circled up, surrounding him in a cloud of love, love that smelled like a mix of Axe, sweaty hockey jersey, mint Trident, and blue raspberry Pixie Stix (Mikey’s one and only vice).

                The crowd’s roar echoed inside his helmet, “Mont-Peh-Tit! Mont-Peh-Tit!”

                “Tha’s right, who’s your favorite?”

                Mikey smacked the top of his helmet, “Don’t let it go to your head, Broccoli.” The non-nonsense captain voice was ruined, though, both by the dumb, unimaginative nickname Brock had had since forever and the grin that went with the reprimand.

                They came out for the second ready to _go_ and it showed. Wally and Archie chipped at the puck behind the Bentley net for what seemed like forever until it popped out to DomZom, who scored, a maneuver which took less than two minutes. A minute forty-five later, though, Brock got sent to the box on a _bullshit_ (okay, so maybe not) hooking call and not even twenty seconds later, Seeler had joined him on an obviously deserved slash.

                Just a minute into Brock’s penalty, his two-down teammates couldn’t support Kirk enough and Bentley took it high glove, just outta his reach. Brock got to do the skate of shame while the Bentley players celebrated and hugged it out at center ice. He couldn’t help but glance up at Zahn, who was perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes flicking between the relay on the video board and Brock as he worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

                The rest of the game flew by for Brock. Stupid little moments stuck in his head, snapshotting into his brain. Archie laying just absolutely crushing checks on everything that moved, including one that shook the entire end glass and sent the crowd to their feet with a roar. Ortega “accidentally” overturning the net to trap the Bentley goalie underneath. Guentzel hopping—literally, both skates off the ice, hopping—as he warmed up at the start of the third. Archie’s empty-netter off of Wally and Mikey. Kirk’s ear-splitting grin once it was official that they’d won, emotions shining on his face like dayglow.

                They all passed by Kirk on their way to the handshake line to give him a little shoulder tap or ass slap in congratulations. “You have pleased your fans,” Massa grinned, slinging an arm around the smaller goalie. “Now you gotta bask in their approval for a minute before something else happens and they decimate you with their hatred.”

                At the look on Kirk’s face, Brock couldn’t help but add, “Or maybe that’s just what happens to Massa.”

                “Fuck yourself,” Massa sing-songed over his shoulder as he turned to get in line.

                He showered and changed in a daze, just waiting to get out to his car and _Zahn_. Comb tracks drying in his hair, he practically sprinted out to his car. When he got there, he found a familiar figure sitting on the hood. “Hey, get offa there,” he called. “Your fat ass is gonna leave a dent.”

                Zahn flipped him off and stood cautiously, careful not to jostle his knee. Brock felt a pang of sadness and sympathy shoot through his chest. In hockey culture, there was a big difference between hurt and injured. You could play hurt. You couldn’t play injured.

                Zahn was injured.

                He unlocked the doors with his remote and tossed his bag into the trunk before coming to stand before his boyfriend. Zahn’s arms immediately came around him, clamping him to the other boy’s chest tightly. Brock gave off approximately as much heat as a small furnace, while Zahn was always cold, so it was no surprise when Zahn buried his head in the soft heat of Brock’s throat and sighed quietly. Brock brought a hand up to stoke through Zahn’s short hair, scratching gently at his scalp as his boyfriend just breathed him in, even though he knew he still smelled like hockey funk.  Even though he was only an inch shorter than Brock, Zahn always seemed so small tucked up tight to him like that. His other hand instinctively grabbed for Zahn’s waist, sliding up the expanse of his rib cage. Brock had seen Zahn naked more times than he cared to count, knew his linemate’s body as well as his own. He knew what Zahn looked like when he was exhausted coming off a long shift, the hazy eyes that screamed that he just might pass out, knew how his collarbones and ribs stuck out when he was ten pounds underweight come January, could tell in a heartbeat whether or not Zahn’s knee was bothering him, or if his shoulder was tight, or if his allergies were hitting him hard again. But he also knew just how to touch him to make a myriad of sounds spill from those pouty lips, how to make him scream or moan with pleasure.

                He dropped his head to kiss gently just below Zahn’s ear, brushing his lips over the skin there, stretched tight over bone, just to feel Zahn’s breathing hitch, feel the way Zahn’s ribs expanded and then contracted back under his fingertips. “Okay?” he whispered, pulling back a few inches.

                Zahn chuckled breathily, looking up at Brock through his practically-translucent lashes, “No, but I will be. Just…watching…it _sucks_ , Brock.”

                “I know, babe. I know.”

                “God, I’m stupid,” Zahn sighed, tipping his head back to glare at the stars. “I _know_ that knee is bad, and yet I _continue_ to use it to block shots. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He heaved another sigh, resting his head against Brock’s shoulder.

                Brock’s eyebrows furrowed. He’d never known anybody like Zahn, a guy so confidant and almost arrogant on the ice, yet always the first one to punish his mistakes, to push himself hard and then harder and demand more from himself when he was already doing what should’ve been impossible. Hockey and frickin’ _neuroscience_? Not everybody could make that work. “Zahn, you’re about as far from stupid as a guy can get, and if that’s not a fact, then…then God’s a possum.”

                He felt Zahn’s mouth quirk up in a smile before he mumbled into his chest, “You gotta stop hangin’ around Johnnie so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, um, so this is the first of these I've ever done with RPF characters that almost NOBODY KNOWS, so if you like this and would like to see more, leave a comment please :) thanks!


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